Shirley Madden (Backstrom), my maternal grandmother, passed away recently. To put it bluntly, they don't make brassy old broads like that anymore. She is survived by roughly nine or ten grand children I guess, and four great grand children, all of whom loved her very much, only one of which I can be certain disappointed her by not becoming a professor or something respectable. She loved me the best though, so take that cousins. Well, up until recently anyway when the younger male cousins were around more to do errands and shit for her and get blasted in the face with guilt. I was the first born though, so it's tough to beat that in terms of love points.
We called her Mammy because she always liked some old Al Jolson movie where he dressed up in black face and sang that old song, which is really kind of weird now that I think about it. She also used to tell me I looked like old timey movie star Robert Mitchum, so thanks for that anyway. When I was young she would sing "Summertime" to me and my sisters.
She lived to eighty six years old, which is a pretty good time to go I'd say, just before that handsome black fellow Obama ruined the country.
Since I moved away from home years ago she would always send me letters in the mail. The letters would follow me around from apartment to apartment, always scribbled in her nearly illegible handwriting which got progressively worse over time. Some of them were impossible to read, but I'd sit there and read every word anyway. I thought every one over the past few years might be the last, and I didn't want to miss a chance to hear her pester me into going back to grad school. Most of the time she would include a check for five dollars in the envelope so I could "get a pizza." Over the past year or two she started addressing them to my girlfriend, which was cool because I got to read them anyway without the guilt of having to respond. Grandchildren are ungrateful little shits.
Although she worked for the phone company for most of her working years, she was a very creative woman who probably would have been an interior decorator or some other made up job that we have nowadays if she had been born a few years later. Up until the last time I saw her up and about she was painting little knick knacks and furniture and shit and trying to get me to take them home to my apartment.
Her greatest joy in life seemed to be when we would avail ourselves of her house in Maine in a tiny village on the water called Round Pond (pictured above sort of). I loved going there, even though it was musty as hell and looked like it was decorated by a methed up Antiques Road Show aficionado. It symbolized childhood innocence and happiness and a place to bring your girlfriend for out of state banging to me. Everything good in the world.
Mammy was also, like most old people, a total fucking ball buster who drove my mother, aunt and uncle insane. The first time she was rushed to the hospital my sisters and mother and I went over there to see her. We thought maybe we would be saying goodbye. She was passed out on a hospital bed while the four of us stood there crying. Then Mammy woke up for a second, looked at me and said "Get that goddamn ring out of your nose." Ha. She was right on that one.
A month or more ago she finally started reaching the end. They set up a hospice bed in my parent's house, and for about two weeks we watched her fade away to nothing. Here and there she'd show signs of coherence, snapping out of it to say weird stuff to my dad, or hold our hands. At first we thought she might pull out of it. We had hope that it wasn't the end, but ultimately, as they say, all things must pass.
She went peacefully, without much of a fight, and then it was over. But we'll always have the memories of her at the top of her game.
In a related story:
brought to you by
5 comments:
ha, the long con. nicely done.
- Sawyer's dad
ah shucks
That was really touching, Luke. She'd be really proud. Now take that goddamned ring out of your nose.
Good advice probably.
Post a Comment